


Feels Like The First Time

by thesalmondean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesalmondean/pseuds/thesalmondean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 7.17 (The Born-Again Identity). Sam is sleeping and Dean is bored out of his mind. Taking refuge in a bar, he runs into a familiar face, one he never expected he'd see again, and receives some physical healing for his many emotional wounds.</p><p>Dean-heavy, Sam-light</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feels Like The First Time

**Author's Note:**

> Episode 7.07 (The Mentalists) is among my favorites from this last season of the show. One of the main reasons is the character Melanie Golden. I found myself rooting for her, and wishing Dean were in a place to have a moment with her. I thought that not only did her character and Dean have a strong connection/chemistry, but I also saw a lot of chemistry between the actress and Jensen. Let's just say at the end of the episode I was left wanting more between them. Not necessarily a relationship, but a moment in time. Just one. 
> 
> This was what I imagined; one of many scenarios I considered. This is also decidedly one-sided, focusing on Dean's perspective after the events of 7.17. I may go back and write something else for Sam...but I haven't found my inspiration yet.

Bored.

Dean was so bored. With a loud yawn he turned his head to look at the opposite bed where Sam was breathing deep, arms and legs spread eagle; unconscious to the world. Dean turned his eyes back to the ceiling with a sigh.

It was a nice ceiling, nicer than what he was used to. There were no water stains; no black moldy spots.

“I can’t believe I’m thinking about friggin’ water spots and mold,”Dean mumbled under his breath, sighing again. It had been two days and aside from waking about 8 hours ago to use the bathroom and eat something Sam had been asleep since they’d left Castiel at the hospital. He hadn’t even been fully conscious when Dean had half-carried him into the hotel room they were occupying.

Dean rubbed his temple with his right hand. Without Sam to relieve him, he’d been too tired to keep driving so he had paid almost three times what he would usually pay so they’d have a nice, safe room in a nice, safe hotel. It was important though; he had to keep Sammy safe. Even after everything they’d been through the last several years, Dean still couldn’t forget this basic mantra that had been instilled in him by his father.

Though to be honest, he’d given up even trying to fight the instinct. Without it Dean still wasn’t sure who he really was.

“Come on, Sam. You gotta be rested by now,” Dean said, not really trying to be quiet as he glanced back over at the form of his brother. He wanted nothing more than to wake Sam up and get back on the road. He was tired of sitting still and worse yet, tired of being alone with just his thoughts for company.

His thoughts were not good company.

It took great effort for Dean to keep a positive outlook even on the best of days and lately every bone in his body, every fiber of his being, wanted to despair and give up. For the last few months nothing had been going right. Dean felt more alone than he ever had in his life. Castiel was gone, Bobby was gone, and Sam was damaged – struggling with literal, inner demons. Then something amazing had happened and for a brief moment Dean had felt the faintest glimmer of hope; Castiel was alive and he promised to fix Sam.

Dean should have known it wouldn’t be so easy. Nothing for them ever was.

According to Cas, Sam couldn’t just be “fixed”. He was completely broken and destined to succumb to the mental and physical anguish he was under. When Cas had uttered those words Dean had felt his entire world shift beneath him. He had been in shock.

But then suddenly everything changed again.

Without hesitation Castiel took on the “crazy” that had been killing Sam, and Dean had been able to walk out of the hospital with his exhausted, but totally sane, little brother in tow.

Castiel remained behind in the hospital, but without death looming over him as his angel body could withstand the effects of the “crazy”, whatever that was. Dean didn’t really know, and he didn’t really want to know. All he knew and cared to know was that Sam was back, and he would be okay. For the moment that was all Dean cared about. After all, it had been the angel’s fault Sam had been in that hospital, in that mental ward, in that broken and haunted state; Dean figured it was the least Castiel could do; absorb the insanity that would have killed his little brother.

He actively avoided thinking too much about Castiel. On top of the sadness of losing Bobby, the paranoia of the Leviathan hiding in plain sight, and the abject depression of being without his baby, Dean couldn’t also manage the visceral anger he still felt towards Castiel for breaking Sam’s wall. So he ignored it; pushed it down deep along with all the other emotions he refused to acknowledge. He failed to notice that the dam holding back those emotions was nearing overflow.

Dean remained focused on the good; that Sam appeared to be himself again, with no haunting images of Lucifer taunting him. That was a mark in the positive column; his brother was back and whole again.  At least Dean hoped he was whole again.

Groaning with frustration, Dean sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“Son of a bitch,” he growled as he stood and slid into his jacket.

He really hated being alone with himself.

Scribbling onto hotel stationary, Dean folded and propped the two-line note on the nightstand that separated the two beds. He didn’t think Sam would wake up before he got back, but just in case he did Dean didn’t want him thinking he’d left him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Scotch, double, neat,” Dean ordered before he’d even taken a seat.

The hotel bar was mostly empty. Dean, settling on one of the many empty stools, pulled out his cell phone for what felt to him like the hundredth time. Nothing. There was no word from Frank, or anyone.

It’d been almost a week since they’d found Frank’s mobile operations center ransacked and blood-splattered. They had no idea of Frank’s whereabouts and Dean didn’t even know who, if anyone, he could contact or how to even try and track him down. He didn’t even know if Frank was still alive.

Initially, Dean had thought maybe the Leviathan had found Frank but with the new bit of information Dean had gotten from Meg regarding Crowley’s actions, he wasn’t sure anymore. Now he held out hope that Frank had fled, staging the scene at his trailer; that Frank was hunkered down, in hiding somewhere and that eventually he would try to contact Dean. It was easier to have that hope, even if it might be false, then to think he had to mourn yet another loss. He and Frank weren’t exactly friends, but Dean had grown fond of the crazy old coot and his conspiracy theorizing.

The bartender appeared, setting his drink before Dean.

“Keep ‘em coming til I’m tapped,” Dean said as he tossed a $50 onto the bar top. The bartender swiftly snatched up the cash and nodded as he moved to the other end of the bar where an older gentleman was waving an empty pilsner.

Tilting back the tumbler, Dean sipped the scotch, savoring the slow burn as the first drops of alcohol slid down his throat. Slowly turning on the barstool, he took in the room.

Located off the main entrance of the hotel, the bar was constructed of dark wood paneling. There were no windows and aside from the overhead lights, the only other illumination was the waning afternoon light reflecting off the smooth tile floor of the adjacent hotel lobby. Dean could hear the echoes of chatter from the people coming and going, and could see them as they passed by, just outside the dark, double-doors of the bar. Most of them were wearing what looked to be business attire. Dean noticeably stood out in his jeans and black t-shirt; a gray button down over that; a blue jacket over that.

Just inside the propped-open doors was a small stage with an upright piano, two microphones, and an amplifier. Near the stage sat a middle-aged man on a laptop, and a few tables from him were two women huddled together and talking in hushed tones. The place was empty save for them, Dean, and the older gentleman also seated at the bar. It was early though; not quite 5pm. Dean guessed once the work day wound down and the weary business travelers made their way back to the hotel that a few more customers would trickle in.

Draining his drink, he turned back to the bar and set the empty glass down. Dean was impressed to see the bartender right there, ready with another. He nodded in appreciation and took a sip. Just then his phone vibrated in his pocket causing him to nearly drop the drink as he quickly dug his phone out of his pocket. Dean’s hopeful spirits fell when he saw that it was neither Sam nor Frank calling. It was only a scheduled reminder to check up on the Impala. With a scowl, Dean stuffed his phone back into his pants pocket, cursing under his breath.

He missed his baby terribly and to be reminded of yet one more thing he was without…Dean felt his frustration start to turn to anger. Every day he was without his Impala it felt a little more like he was losing a part of himself. He missed her creaking doors, her squeaky vinyl seats, her cassette-tape player that even after two rebuilds still worked. He missed the growl of her exhaust and the power of her engine. He missed changing her oil and tinkering with her timing belt. Mostly he missed cruising down back country roads with the windows rolled down and Zeppelin turned up loud while he opened her up and let her fly, getting perverse pleasure from Sam’s discomfort and lectures on speeding and car safety.

Dean stared into his glass, than downed his drink in one swallow, attempting to suppress the loneliness and depression that was trying to overtake him; again. All he wanted was something good; hell, he _needed_ something good.

Waving his hand to get the bartender’s attention, Dean impulsively stuck his other hand into his jacket pocket, searching for the familiar feel of the Impala keychain; but it wasn’t there. Dean had no baby, no Bobby, no Cas; nothing.

He wished Sam would wake up already.

A new tumbler appeared before him and Dean wondered how many more he had coming as he contemplated tossing another fifty at the bartender. Something told him he would be spending yet another night here, so there was no need to worry about drinking too much.

“White wine, please,” a woman’s voice, coming from Dean’s left, said.

Staring at the brown liquid in his glass, Dean swirled the drink, watching the movement of the scotch. He ignored the woman even as he saw her peripherally take a seat at the bar only a few stools down from him; he sensed the movement of the bartender as he delivered a glass of white wine to her but he didn’t really see it. He barely noticed when the televisions that had been previously muted above the bar suddenly grew loud as they started spouting the local, 5 o’clock news.

Dean just stared at his glass as he tilted it, round and round.

“Dean?”

The voice came from the woman on his left, the same woman who had taken a seat a few bar stools away; the woman who had ordered the white wine. Closing his eyes briefly in an attempt to compose his frayed nerves, Dean tilted his head towards her while his right hand moved instinctively to grasp the pearl grip of his Colt, hidden inside his jacket.

He knew her, though.

She was one of a few people he would never forget and it only took a few seconds for Dean’s anxiety to fade into relief as he searched his memory for the name of the woman before him; the woman with dark hair, dark eyes, and kind smile; the woman who had indirectly helped rebuild a collapsed bridge between he and Sam.

“Melanie Golden,” Dean impulsively smiled, her name suddenly appeared in his mind in black, bold letters. Releasing his hold on the gun and straightened up, he turned to meet her gaze straight on.

“I never thought I would see you again,” Melanie smiled wider, and Dean felt immediate warmth spread inside his chest; warmth that was unrelated to the three glasses of scotch he’d already consumed.

“What are you doing in…ah…here?” Dean faltered as he realized he didn’t even know where “here” was. All he knew was that after leaving the hospital he’d driven until he couldn’t any longer, and stopped.

“I’m not sure where we are,” Dean said apologetically, his voice slightly softer. He looked down at the glass before him as if it held the answers, than in one quick movement he gulped the remainder of the scotch.

“I’m here for business,” Melanie answered, her expression softening as she watched Dean with an intensity that made him self-conscious. Something he rarely was.

“Psychic business?” Dean asked as he glanced at the bartender and raised his finger for another drink.

“No, actually” Melanie answered as she stood and moved to the empty stool directly next to Dean.

“No? Huh,” Dean nodded and sipped the new drink that was placed in front of him.

“What are you doing here? Where’s Sam?” Melanie asked. Dean watched her eyes move around the bar, looking for him.

“Sam’s resting,” Dean answered, shortly and bit tersely.

“Is everything okay?” Melanie asked, her hand reaching out and resting lightly on Dean’s left arm.

“Sure. Everything’s fine,” Dean replied with a tight smile.

_Fine. If Bobby being dead, Cas being mental, Frank being missing, baby being on lockdown and Sam being down for the count for days on end was all fine. If being stuck inside your own head, with only yourself for company was fine. Yeah, everything was fine._

“Sure,” she nodded and pulled her hand away from Dean’s arm, smiling warmly.

Dean could hear the doubt in her voice.

“But if it isn’t fine, I am a good listener,” she added as she looked up at the TV above the bar and sipped her glass of wine.

Dean didn’t respond as he felt a sudden panic rise up in his chest. He clenched his jaw tight to keep from pouring out all that had happened since he and Sam had left Lily Dale. Instead he choked down the words and the feelings, chasing them with scotch as he followed her glance to see that the seven-day forecast showed a chance for rain the next few days.

He almost laughed.

He still didn’t know where he was and truthfully, he didn’t really care.

They sat together in silence for awhile. Melanie sipped her wine and watched the local news broadcast while Dean sat hunched over his drink, debating with himself. He felt compelled to tell Melanie everything; suddenly she seemed like the only person he could talk too. He was convinced she wouldn’t judge him, or try to fix him. She would just listen to him. And best of all, he’d never see her again after today.

The problem was he didn’t know how to start; he’d been “fine” for so long that talking about not being fine was a completely foreign concept.

“Dean?”

“Hmmm?” Raising his eyebrows, Dean turned to look at her.

“I asked how long you were staying?” she smiled.

“Not sure,” Dean replied with a shrug and a sip.

Melanie just raised her eyebrows in reply, as if expecting more of an answer.

“Depends on when Sam wakes up,” Dean vaguely added, the emotional dam starting to crack, threatening to crumble altogether. If she kept prodding him, he would let loose the flood and while part of him hoped she would, the other part was terrified of what would happen if he did start talking; he was sure he would never shut up.

“Is he sick?” Melanie asked with obvious concern.

Dean let out a humorless, barking laugh.

“You could say that.”

Her expression turned quizzical and Dean fought momentary, maniacal, laughter.

“He’s not physically sick, but he is recovering from a-,” Dean paused, giving a sour smile, “a thing.”

Melanie nodded her expression still unsure.

“Well I hope he feels better,” she offered, finishing her glass of wine. Dean nodded.

The bartender returned then, asking Melanie if she’d like another glass of wine. She declined, and when Dean tapped his glass indicating another scotch, the bartender gave a slight shake of his head. Dean sighed and nodded.

“I’m headed back to Lily Dale tomorrow,” Melanie said as she stood and shouldered her bag. Dean watched her, wishing he could ask her to stay, or tell her that he desperately needed company; that she was the first normal person he’d spoken too for days; that he was afraid to be alone and just needed some companionship.

He didn’t say a word.

Leveling her eyes at Dean, they stared at each other for a long moment. Dean finally offered a tired smile and Melanie, who had looked to be waging an internal dialogue with herself, suddenly seemed to come to a conclusion.

“Would you like to keep me company while I pack?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” Dean answered quickly, the relief of not being left alone once more nearly overwhelming him. Tossing a $20 on the bar, he followed her out.

“If you aren’t doing the psychic thing anymore than what brought you here?” Dean asked as they walked out of the bar toward the bank of elevators.

“Job interview,” Melanie answered.

“What’s the job?” Dean asked, pressing the up button.

“Teaching,” Melanie smiled, “I have a teaching license for Kindergarten through fourth grade. There’s a position at a private school here in town for a second grade teacher. The interview was today, and I should find out in the next few days.”

“Sam and I worked a job at a high school once,” Dean smiled at the memory as the elevator arrived and they entered, “I posed as a P.E. teacher. Had the kids play dodge ball. It was awesome.”

Melanie pressed the button for the fifth floor.

“I always hated dodge ball when I was in school. The boys played rough,” she replied, grinning at Dean.

The ride up to the fifth floor seemed incredibly long for Dean, who was suddenly very aware of the close proximity of Melanie. He’d had no ideas or intentions of trying to hook up with her when she’d invited him up to her room, but now it was all he could think about. She was beautiful, and if he hadn’t been distracted by his fight with Sam the first time they’d met, he might have tried something then.

Finally arriving on her floor, Dean followed her down the hall.

“Here we are,” Melanie stopped at her door, fumbling with the electronic key. Dean’s lips quirked nervously and he wondering if she was feeling as flustered in his presence as he suddenly was in hers.

“So, uh, how long have you been in town?” Dean asked as she got the door open and he followed her into the room.

“Oh, uh, about a week. I took some extra time to explore the area, check out the neighborhoods, look for some housing. If I do get offered the job I wanted to be sure I could actually live here,” Melanie tossed her room key and purse on to the cluttered desk. “It’s a nice town,” she added.

“I can offer you some tap water, with ice from the ice machine down the hall,” Melanie grinned over her shoulder at Dean.

“I’m okay,” Dean replied as his eyes instinctually swept the room, taking in the scene. The king size bed, made up by the housekeeping staff that morning, was the prominent feature. There was a small round table with two hard-back chairs by the window, as well as an armchair with a tall floor-lamp behind it. The armoire against the wall at the foot of the bed no doubt held a large flat-screen TV just like the one in the Dean and Sam’s room. The desk, beneath her bag, was littered with paperwork, snack food wrappers, and a laptop computer.

Dean moved across the room to one of the hard-back chairs and sat, suddenly feeling very awkward.

“So you’re headed back to Lily Dale in the morning?” Dean asked, clearing his throat. Melanie nodded as she placed her empty suitcase on the bed and flipped it open. Moving to the armoire, she opened the doors wide and pulled out several blouses and a dress.

“That’s the plan,” she smiled, tossing her clothes into the open suitcase without folding them.

Dean chuckled.

“I thought you’d be a neater packer,” he said as a flash of memory from their first meeting surfaced. He recalled glimpsing her suitcase then, too. It was just as messy.

“Nope,” Melanie smiled and shrugged.

“How are things in Lily Dale?” Dean asked, watching her move around the room, picking up several pairs of shoes and, tossing them into the suitcase.

“Well there’ve been no more questionable murders,” she replied, “and just as many real psychics as before.”

“Status quo,” Dean nodded and Melanie laughed.

“Pretty much. What have you and Sam been up to since I saw you last?” Melanie asked, not knowing her polite return of question would again bring to the front of Dean’s mind all the emotional turmoil of the last few weeks as a montage of events flashed through Dean’s mind; Bobby’s death, fathering a fast-aging Amazonian monster-daughter, Sam’s internal struggle, Cas’s sudden reappearance, Frank’s sudden disappearance…and he nearly blurted out everything to her. He wanted to let it out so badly. The words were literally on the tip of his tongue. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He had no idea how to take that step so instead he crammed it all back down and swallowed hard, forcing a smile.

“Just work,” Dean shrugged, “you know.”

“More of the same?” she asked, meeting his eyes.

“Pretty much,” Dean lied, his tone convincingly even, though the accumulated weight of everything was pressing down, nearly crushing him.

Melanie just smiled and turned back to the armoire, pulling open a drawer that was full of more clothes.

“For a week of travel you sure brought a lot,” Dean broke the silence, driving the conversation back to her.

“What can I say,” Melanie shrugged as she grabbed a large armful of what looked like jeans and shirts and turning to the suitcase, “I wanted to be prepa-,” suddenly she tripped on the trailing sleeve of a sweater, throwing the armful of clothes onto the floor as she simultaneously fell forward onto the end of the bed.

“Whoa,” Dean rose quickly from his chair while Melanie picked herself up off the bed.

“Sure you only had one glass of wine?” Dean teased as he crouched down and gathered up a few of the items, while she did the same.

“Yeah,” she laughed and gave Dean an impish grin, “I’m just clumsy.”

Arms loaded with several shirts and a pair of blue jeans, Dean turned to look behind him for anything he might have missed. Seeing the floor was clear, Dean spun on his toes and rose quickly, not looking where he was. As he came up he drove his temple right into the corner of the armoire cabinet door. The unit shuddered with the impact, while the room momentarily disappeared as Dean’s vision exploded into a field of black with bright white spots.

"Son of a-," Dean reflexively dropped all the clothing he'd just picked up while his hands flew to his head and he staggered back a few steps.

The back of his legs collided with the chair he’d just vacated and he willingly fell into it. The immediate and intense pain of the initial contact faded almost as fast as it had appeared, but was quickly replaced by a throbbing, radiant heat that spread across his scalp and a piercing pain that kept time with his heartbeat. His eyes watered uncontrollably as his vision slowly cleared and the room began to come back into view, granted as a blur, through the tears. 

"Are you okay?" Melanie had absently tossed the clothes she’d had in her arms into the suitcase and she was standing in front of him, her expression betraying her concern as she stared at Dean.

Dean looked up at her, offering a tight-lipped smile as he felt a slow drip of blood start to trickle down from his hairline. He reached a hand up and gingerly touched the wound, wincing with pain. Bringing his hand back down he saw his fingers were red with blood. 

“I’ll live,” he mumbled as he wiped his bloody fingers on the leg of his jeans. “I’ve had worse,” he added.

Melanie’s eyebrows knotted together before she turned and moved quickly to the bathroom. Dean heard the faucet run and she soon returned with a wet washcloth in hand. Standing between Dean's legs her fingers gently probed the area around the cut. The washcloth was warm against his head as she gently wiped away the dripping blood. Dean knew head wounds bled a lot and he was sure all he’d have to show for this incident tomorrow was a small cut, but a large bruise.

"Lucky for you I know first aid," Melanie said from above him as she worked. Dean sensed teasing in her tone.

"I think you'll survive," she added.

“Like I said,” Dean replied with a shrug.

"Hold this here," Melanie pressed the cloth directly against the cut and guided Dean's hand to hold it in place while she went to her purse and brought out a first aid kit. Dean smiled.

"Prepared for anything," he said as she moved back towards him, pulling out a gauze pad, some medical tape, and an alcohol wipe.

"Yep," she winked and Dean felt his stomach flip unexpectedly.

Standing before Dean once more, between his knees, Melanie pulled his hand away and gently removed the wet cloth. Dean let his hands rest on his thighs while she worked, trying to ignore the proximity of her body. Her breasts at eye level, Dean avoided them by staring hard at the buckle of the small black belt around her waist, where the soft champagne colored blouse she wore disappeared into the black slacks. His hands twitched with a desire to feel the fabric of her clothes beneath them; to feel her.

She worked slowly and gently, cleaning the area around the cut with the alcohol wipe. One hand gently cupped the back of Dean's head, near the base of his skull, while the other worked to clean him up. The sensation of her hand was distracting. Purposefully or not, her fingers gently moved against his scalp as she worked, slightly massaging.  The human contact, the comfort, felt good and Dean’s heart ached with the desire for more.

Her hand increased pressure slightly then pulled away as she placed the gauze pad and taped the corners to his forehead. Dean closed his eyes as her hands gently pressed the tape down, securing the bandage in place. 

"There," he heard her say softly while her fingers lingered momentarily in his hair before she broke all contact with him.

Opening his eyes he saw her feet start to step back and without pause Dean reached out and gently gripped her waist, running his hands around and up her lower back. He heard her inhale sharply, he hoped in a good way. Fingers pressed into her back, Dean kept his eyes downcast as he leaned his newly bandaged forehead into the space just below her breasts, pressing against her. He could hear her heartbeat. He ignored the dull ache of his head and instead focused on the human contact that he so desperately needed.

For a moment there was no response, but then he felt her hands light gently on his shoulders; then her fingers were tracing lines up his neck, before raking through his short-cropped hair.

"Dean," she said her voice barely above a whisper.

Pulling his head back slightly, Dean raised his eyes and looked up at her; she was looking down at him, her expression bright and expectant. Dean felt another lurch in his stomach and a piercing stab in his chest before he gripped her tighter and pulled her down to him. She came willingly, and falling to her knees in front of him their lips met.

Gently, they were hesitant with each other at first, but rather quickly the kisses turned hungry, passionate. Dean’s heart pounded as he pulled Melanie tighter to him. He wished away all the space between them, wanting nothing more than to live in this moment and forget everything that came before it. He poured out everything he couldn’t say in words in that kiss; his anguish over Bobby; his disappointment in Castiel; his extreme concern for his brother. The pressure on the cracks of Dean’s emotional dam eased as he spoke the only language he knew how, and Melanie responded.

Pulling back to catch his breath, Dean searched her expression for any doubt but she simply met his gaze, her breathing heavy and her cheeks flushed red. Dean slowly bent his head and starting at her clavicle he softly nibbled and kissed, moving slowly up her neck. She placed one hand on the back of Dean’s neck, holding him to her. Dean could hear and feel her warm breath in his ear. Reaching her lips again she welcomed him with a long, deep, sensuous kiss that went on for what seemed forever. 

Melanie started to pull back and Dean opened his eyes, his expression questioning. She smiled as she grabbed his hands and pulled him to standing before running her hands around his waist and up his back, beneath all his layers of clothes. The feel of her hands on his bare skin quickened Dean's heart-rate even more and he kissed her again, this time with more urgency as his hands tugged at her tucked in blouse, freeing it from her pants.

Dean slowly moved forward, urging Melanie back towards the bed he knew was right behind her. He stopped just a few inches shy and pulling back, he again searched her face for any doubts, asking her without using words if she wanted to do this.

A kiss on his neck was Melanie’s reply, so Dean started to unbutton her blouse while Melanie withdrew her hands from under Dean’s clothes and pressed them on top of his t-shirt against his chest. Dean felt her hands leave hot trails behind them as she slowly moved them up his chest and along his shoulders, eventually pushing his jacket and over-shirt off his shoulders. Dean abandoned her blouse buttons to shrug the layers completely off.

Melanie stripped her shirt while Dean pulled his tee over his head, tossing it on the floor with his other shirts. He watched Melanie as her eyes examined him, stopping to rest on the tattoo just below his left clavicle. Her fingers lightly traced the pattern on his skin as she moved closer to him. Her hands running down his naked chest towards his groin, Melanie kissed the tattoo while she unbuckled Dean’s belt, then unbuttoned his pants, her hands teasing by resting softly on his waist, just where the band of his boxers peeked out of his jeans. Dean ran his hands against the bare skin of her arms, fingers slipping under the straps of the nude-colored camisole she still wore, sliding them off her shoulders.

With a soft, yet urgent kiss to Melanie’s shoulder, Dean abandoned his touch to kick off his boots, socks and pants. Melanie stripped off her cami and slacks as they admired each other in their undergarments. Dean licked his lips as he watched Melanie sank down on the edge of the bed and scoot slowly backwards, her breast full in her lacy bra while her low-rise panties teased the treasure it kept hidden from view.

Dean leaned forward and on his hands and knees crawled across the bed towards her, his boxers beginning to feel constricting to his growing arousal. She was on her back at the top of the bed and leaving a trail of kisses starting from the waistband of her panties, Dean worked his way up her body until he was hovering over her. Smoothing her hair back from her face, he kissed her cheeks, her neck, and nibbled her earlobes while she ran her hands in his hair, alternately gripping the back of his neck and grabbing at his shoulders.

With a tight grip on her, Dean rolled onto his back and pulled Melanie with him so she was straddling him. Sitting upright, Dean kissed and bit at her neck while he reached behind her and unhooked her bra, letting her breasts come free. He took a hardened nipple into his mouth, flicking the tip with his tongue while his teeth bit down gently. He heard her breathing in his ear as she cradled his head to her, running her hands through his hair. Dean moved his mouth from one breast to the other, his hands gently holding and kneading the perfect spheres while he felt his arousal growing.

Suddenly pulling back, Melanie raked her nails down Dean’s chest as she gently pushed him to his back. She followed him down, pressing her bare chest to his as their mouths met once more, tongues dancing and lips working together, finding a rhythm that fueled the desire between them. As their mouths worked, Dean traced his fingers lightly up her back, finding the base of her neck and holding her to him tightly. He could feel her heart beat against his chest and their combined body heat seemed enough to combust the duvet.

Melanie slowly pulled away and with a smile, moved her kisses to Dean’s neck, then chest, nibbling on his nipples and tracing her fingers down his body. She slowly moved down while the nerve endings along the path of her lips screamed in pleasure. Reaching the waistband of Dean boxer shorts she bit his hardened cock through the fabric, offering a teasing smile. Dean felt a flash of pleasing pain as he sucked in his breath. Melanie looked up at him, her hands slowly pulling at his boxers, working them, ever so excruciatingly slow, off his body. His erection popped free as she pulled them down past his knees and off.  Then she was on him, her tongue licking the underside of his cock while one hand massaged his balls.

Dean groaned with pleasure as she took him in her mouth, sucking hard on tip of his dick as he came free of her mouth with a loud “pop”. She definitely knew what she was doing; one hand stroked and massaged his balls and the area of skin between his legs, the other stroked the shaft of his dick while her mouth was on him again and again, tongue licking up and down, around the tip, like a lollipop. Dean felt himself grow ever harder as she worked him.

Feeling like he was getting close to climax, Dean gently pulled Melanie up to him, their lips meeting again before Dean rolled her onto her back. Without a word he pulled back from her and in one swift movement pulled her panties down and off.

Gently, Dean spread her legs wide as he kissed and nibbled the inside of each thigh, slowly moving closer and closer to the target spot. Melanie had one hand in his hair while the other gripped one of Dean’s forearms tightly. Mouth near the outer folds of her labia, Dean flicked his tongue out and heard her gasp. Smiling, Dean ran his tongue up the length of her, pressing his face against her as he felt her raise her hips to meet him. Both her hands were in his hair now, and Dean wrapped his arms around her thighs, gripping her hips and holding her down as he thrust his tongue inside her, rubbing his nose against her erect clit. She tried to press up against him, but Dean held her down, playing with her as he moved his tongue faster, thrusting it in and out of her while alternately flicking and gently biting at her clit. It wasn’t long before she came, crying out, her hips thrusting up even against Dean’s strong hands.

Dean ached for release himself, and as Melanie’s orgasm faded, Dean started working on her again, his tongue circling, arousing her once more.

“Come on,” she whispered, her hips rising upwards while her hands tried to pull Dean away, “please.”

Dean abandoned her and moved his mouth up her body, kissing and licking both breasts once more before he found her lips. With one slow, fluid motion he slid his cock into her, her cries lost in their kisses as she immediately wrapped her legs tight around him and moved her hips in rhythm to his thrusts. She was so tight and wet around him, Dean felt sure he would come before she could reach that point again herself. Slowing his movements, Dean kissed her lips, her face, her neck; as he drove his cock deep in her, slowly grinding and enjoying the gasps and guttural moans that came from Melanie’s throat, he allowed himself to react to the pleasure as well, eliciting his own moans when he felt her tighten around his cock, the increased friction bringing increased pleasure. Her fingers pressed hard against his back, holding him tight to her as they moved together, their rhythm’s bringing them both to the brink of orgasm, yet not quite reaching the tipping point.

Dean began to thrust hard, going deeper inside her as she met his every push with ferocity. They started to increase the pace, their hips moving together as they held on to each other. Dean’s breath came short and quick as he buried his head in the crook of Melanie’s shoulder. He felt her fingers dig even harder into his back as she started to moan louder, her hips rocking faster as they reached climax simultaneously, coming together and calling out together as their bodies spasmed with pleasure. Dean felt his cock empty, filling her. Dean lay on top of Melanie, remaining inside her as their bodies slowly stopped shuddering from orgasm. It was with not even half a care that he realized they hadn’t used any protection.

Their breathing evening out, Dean finally rolled off her, reluctantly pulling his now flaccid dick out of her and immediately missing the tight, warm environment.

Dean curled up next to her, holding her to him while Melanie rubbed his back, holding him as if she knew he needed to be comforted. Neither of them spoke, and Dean wondered if she realized they hadn’t used any protection. He wasn’t about to bring it up but if she did, he would take responsibility for not being prepared.

While they laid there in the growing dark with the sun setting outside, Dean felt for the first time like he was maybe going to be okay. Something inside him felt like it was starting to heal, like he wasn’t staring down the barrel of a loaded gun just waiting for his day to die. Suddenly, he was looking forward to what the following days might bring.

He wanted to tell her, to thank her. She had fixed something in him, something that he couldn’t even name and something that he didn’t even know could be fixed. She’d given him a perspective on life; a moment of joy and clarity that brought into sharp focus what his purpose was. Dean didn’t know if it was a permanent fix, but it was a start.

He _needed_ to tell her, to thank her.

Instead he remained silent, sure that if he spoke it would be to break the spell.

It wasn’t but ten minutes later that they both fell asleep; still on top of the duvet and with Melanie’s half-packed suitcase still perched on the edge of the King-size bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The buzzing sound of a vibrating cell phone woke Dean with a start. It was completely dark and it took him a few seconds to remember where he was. His head throbbed from his run-in with the armoire and Dean silently groaned with annoyance as he felt for the bandage, determining it was still taped down.  With a glance to Melanie to see that she was still asleep, Dean rolled silently off the bed and dug his cell phone out of his jeans, which were still haphazardly piled on the floor.

“Sam?” Dean whispered as he moved to the bathroom.

“Where are you? It’s 3am and the bar is closed,” Sam’s voice, sounding a bit angry, came through the phone.

“Relax,” Dean said as he suppressed a smile; his brother worried about him after all.

“Relax? After everything, you tell me to relax?” Dean heard Sam sigh heavily.

“Fine. I’m relaxed. But I’m also starving, will you get back here and take me for some food? You took the car keys with you, there’s no room service this late, and there’s nothing left here in the room.”

Dean peeked around the corner of the bathroom. Melanie hadn’t moved.

“Be there in five,” Dean replied quietly as he hung up the phone, dragging his clothes into the bathroom.

Once dressed, Dean moved to Melanie’s bedside and stared down at her. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, explanations he felt he needed to give. But there was also nothing he could say that wouldn’t make him sound like a dick. So Dean draped the blanket that was folded at the foot of the bed over her, and quietly left; no note, no goodbye. He was certain it was better that way.

A few floors up he found Sam pacing in their room. The food Dean had stocked was gone, the wrappers littering Sam’s bed.

“Finally. I’m starved,” Sam shoved Dean’s duffel into his hands, grabbed his own bag off the bed and was out the door of the room.

“C’mon! Let’s get out of here and find a 24-hour pancake shop,” he called from the hallway.

Dean shouldered his bag and with a final, cursory glance around the room, followed Sam out to the car. As they pulled out of the parking lot Sam turned to Dean.

“Where were you, anyway? And what happened to your head?”

Dean remained silent as he felt the corners of his mouth twitch as he held back a smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam shrug noncommittally and turn to stare out the window, on the lookout for a pancake house that was still open this time of night.

Dean could empathize; he was actually quite hungry himself.


End file.
